autumn poetry

in the cloud-gray mornings
the ancient songs
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
brief on a flying night
softly now the light of day
and with the humming bird
over the river they beckon to me
sadly speaking
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
she must go back, she said
splendid and terrible your love
winged shadows sweeping by
above them all, looking down